Underneath the Masks
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: Daud's Whalers struck fear into the hearts of all those living in Dunwall. The masked assassins were methodical, ruthless and played with dark magic like it was a toy. Here are the accounts of the men underneath those masks, the ones who swore to follow Daud no matter what.
1. Thomas

They were late.

Thomas resisted the urge to tip his head upwards, to once more survey the baleful moon that hung low in the sky over Dunwall. Sure, it looked breathtaking, but that was the last thing he needed right now. Distractions would only make the business at hand even riskier.

If only he hadn't been a virtuous fool.

Thomas had come to the city three years ago, from Morley. In that time, he'd carved out a nice little niche as a man who got things done. The same talents that had served him in the villages and moors of his homeland were doing him a world of good here, on the cobblestone streets of the city. A man needed to eat, drink and sleep, after all. So in between doing those things, he found himself taking on contracts. Mostly gangs who were too chickenshit or too incompetent to get something for themselves. But occasionally a shady noble of one kind or another wanted petty revenge on someone else, and they paid _extremely _well. So he'd prospered for a time.

Unfortunately in this last run, he'd come down with a bad case of conscience. The barrels behind him on the cart had been heavy, but they'd been even heavier weighing down on his mind. From the start, he'd known this contract to be bad news. He should have just pulled out and found a few aristocrats with big grudges and big bank accounts.

Well, he was here now, and wishing wasn't going to change that. He'd just have to keep his wits about him and pray that the boys from Bottle Street were as dumb as they looked.

Speaking of which, a brawny man in a tweed overcoat swaggered around a lamppost about twenty metres away and leaned against it, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably. "Evening, stranger, "he drawled. "Cold night for a-"

"Just go tell your boss the exchange is ready, "Thomas said, tersely cutting him off. He was in no mood for their shit. His hackles were already raised, and the shortsword strapped to his hip felt entirely too far away for his liking. He would rather have it in his hand.

Throwing him a glare, the man turned back around the corner. Muffled speaking ensued, one voice high and complaining, the other low and even. When the former started rising to a crescendo, the latter cut him off a harsh snarling sound that a wolfhound would have balked at. Thomas blanched. So he would be dealing with _him _tonight. Just wonderful.

Five men came out of the darkness, burly specimens who looked like they dined on nothing but whale blubber and dark wine. With the exception of their front man, who'd been verbally slapped by Thomas, all were sporting ugly grins on uglier faces. But they were Outsider-damned milkmaid beauties compared to their leader.

A nasty rash covered one side of his face, the skin unhealthy and peeling away. The other was dark and mottled from a burn scar, and gave his right eye a perpetually rabid look. It swivelled in the harsh lamplight to look at him. Thomas fought back a derisive snort: didn't these cretins realise that if they kept trying to put fire in things, they'd get burned? _And that ain't a damned euphemism, either._

Ben the Brand folded his arms and pursed his chapped lips. "Thomas. A pleasure as always." His vocal cords had been damaged after all the screaming he'd done when the accident happened, and what had once been a gravelly bass tone was now a sibilant hiss. It sounded like he was keeping a snake in his throat. _He keeps plenty of snakes about him, too. _All of them looked pretty fucking eager for violence.

But that wasn't his way, so Thomas nodded tightly. "Pleasure." He stepped to one side, ignored the way the Bottle Street boys all reached for their cudgels and waved at his ill-gotten gains. "Here it is, as agreed. Give me my fee and we can all get out of the cold."

It _was _cold: the bitter wind snuck in through the seams of his old coat and raised goosebumps. But it was colder in the eyes of the Brand, who smiled thinly. "This all of it, then?"

Somewhere, in a small cellar below an artist's studio owned by a painter who owed Thomas a favour, the answer lay. Thomas answered with a straight face. "Yes. All of it."

"Uh-huh." The Brand walked forward, until he was barely ten metres away from Thomas. "You met Vennick, didn't you?"

Their mutual contact. "Yeah. Maybe."

"You did." There was no doubt in the Brand's voice. He stated it like a fact. "'Cause he said there were eight barrels in the Atherton estate. I count five."

Thomas shrugged indifferently. "Not from what I saw. I saw five, I got five. I can't take what's not there, Brand." He leaned against the cart, but kept his hand on the shortsword.

The Brand just stood there, looked at him with a cocked head. Almost sadly. Then he murmured, "You're not making this easy, Thomas. I thought we could trust one another."

"Which would explain why you brought your back-up, "Thomas said sardonically. "Now are we done pussyfooting around in this reek or can you give me my damned money and we call it quits?"

There was no warning as the Brand roared with anger and surged towards him. The man was like a damned mountain. Thomas drew his sword with a single fluid movement and swung. The tip carved a bloody ripple along the Brand's muscular forearm, and he reeled back with a squeal. His voice, now a high falsetto, whined at him. "You little fuck-"

The Bottle Street boys weren't idle. Yelling and cursing, they came at him.

With a savage shove, Thomas unlatched the back of the cart. The wine barrels went careering towards the oncoming gang members. One smashed soundly into a man's ankle and sent him to the cobbles screeching. Another tripped a man up, and when he got up again three of his teeth were missing. The charge slowed as the boys found the narrow street filled with rolling oak.

And in a matter of seconds, Thomas was upon them.

The front man made an undisciplined swing with his cudgel, and was promptly skewered by Thomas. "Idiot, "he muttered, as the man expired noisily and toppled off the blade. Pivoting to the right, he dodged a boot but struck his head on the concrete wall. Pain flared, stunning him. He stumbled away to one side, and was sent sprawling to the ground as another man tackled him.

Spitting and snarling like a mad animal, he smelled the faint whiff of cheap aftershave and dock water as a fist slammed into his cheek. He felt something break, but kept his mind in a cold state. Realising his shortsword wasn't in his hand anymore, he grabbed the dagger he kept in his belt lining and shoved it between the man's ribs. He gagged, and rolled off Thomas.

Thomas made to jump up, to keep fighting, but then a shadow fell over him and he groggily the man with a broken ankle pointing a crossbow at his face. "Try it, you hagfish, "the man breathed, pain filling every syllable. "Just try it."

Thomas did not. He heard the Brand growl, "Get the bastard on his feet."

Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him upwards. Blearily, he wondered when the last time was he'd gotten a roll with someone. The Golden Cat? He'd pretended to be some rich young duellist, and had spent a few pleasurable hours with a young fellow named Sebastian before the madame had ejected him. Well, that was probably the last time he'd get laid. Judging from the way things were going. He'd killed two, but the Brand was still alive, and two of his cronies. Thomas was good, but not that good.

The Brand stood before him, nursing his bleeding arm, and spat in his face. Thomas felt the creamy saliva work its way down his face, and twitched. "This isn't my day."

Hissing furiously, the Brand seized his head and twisted it viciously to one side. "You try to steal from us? You try to fuck us over? You won't have any more days again after this, "he whispered loathingly in Thomas' ear. "We're giving your carcass to the river krusts. When you see the Outsider, tell him this." A knife point under his chin, pricking open the skin. _"Don't_ _fuck with the Bottle Street-"_

There was a sound, halfway between the _whoosh _of a candle flame being extinguished and the noise fabric made when it was torn. He must have been hallucinating, because he thought he saw ribbons of black air manifest from the air into the shape of a-

A man in a red coat stepped behind the Brand and neatly slit his throat with a heavy blade. Gurgling, the ganger dropped to the ground and sprawled at Thomas' feet. The man gave Thomas a toothy smile. "Gang. I'm guessing."

The last two members of the Brand's little posse shouted in shock, then rage. One made to stab the man in the chest, but he whipped up his arm and a green dart fired from his wrist. It embedded itself in the man's cheek, and after a few seconds of turning the colour of a hagfish, he fell to the ground, making carking noises.

Yelping, the last member ran into the dark at the end of the street. Thomas made to go after him, but the man in the red coat held up a hand. "Wait. Listen."

Right on cue, the terrified shrieks of the last Bottle Street boy filled the air, bouncing off the narrow walls. The sound of a blade plunging into something soft, and a final, wheezing sigh.

Thomas swung to look at the man in the coat. Now that he wasn't on the verge of getting killed, he took a moment to size him up. A craggy face, with some nasty scars. Serkonan, he would guess, from the shape of his nose and mouth. _Handsome, too. _Stifling that line of thought, he bowed low. "Thank you, stranger." Talking made his mouth hurt, and he grimaced. "Bastards almost got me. I'm Thomas."

The man shrugged. "We were passing by. Thought you could use the help." He reached down, and pressed the shortsword back into Thomas' hand. "You'd want something better than that."

"Yeah. I was planning on it." Thomas looked down at the bodies, and sighed. "There goes my commission."

His saviour shrugged again. "You walked away from it. I'd say you won."

Thomas was about to argue that point, something about how rushing in to save unwary smugglers probably didn't pay all that well, when he heard movement and turned. The man in the coat held up a hand. "It's fine."

Another man in a red coat swaggered towards them. Thomas was unable to see her face. He was wearing one of the masks that the whalers used to protect their faces from the fumes and such. He frowned. "Who are you two?"

"Daud." The man gestured to the new arrival. "This is Billie."

_"Lurk, "_the second man piped, and unloosened the ties that held the mask in place. Thomas was shocked to see a woman, not a man, underneath that visage. Her dark skin shone in the lamplight, and she gazed at him flatly. "It's Billie Lurk."

"Billie Lurk. My second in command. And protégé."

"But…" Thomas had a whirlwind of questions that needed answering. This night couldn't possibly get any stranger. "I've never seen you two before. Which gang are you part of?"

"We're not."

"Then…do you work for the Abbey?"

The one called Billie Lurk laughed, and Daud threw her a glare. When she'd stopped, he shook his head and said, "We've come from different places. We're looking to survive this city. Maybe right a few wrongs while we're here. It depends on who takes us on."

Something told Thomas that Daud was unaccustomed to speaking, and that it had remarkable for him to share this much. Thomas nodded, long and slow. Thought about it. Thought about how he'd been running ragged for months, forced to do business with backstabbing crooks like the Bottle Street gang and the Hatters. How he'd finally let conscience get the best of him.

Daud and Billie were killers. But so was he. Plus, they'd saved his life. He owed them that at least.

So he squared himself up to Daud, and asked, "Mind if I come along? You two interest me. Also…" He hesitated, then pushed through. "I've never seen anyone do that before." _Appearing from nowhere, tatters of black air…_

Daud's mouth twitched. "Few have. But I know someone very special. And if you stay with us, you might share in his…" Another grimace. "Gift. It's not for everyone."

Thomas shrugged. "It might be for me. As long as you don't try to kill me."

Daud tilted his head. "Let's talk about it first. Come with us. It's not far."

"One moment." Thomas strode past, and one by one rolled the barrels into a small alleyway. Locating a discarded tarp, he covered them over. Daud watched him. "Why did you screw the Brand over?"

Thomas straightened, looked Daud in the eye. "The wine in those barrels were made by slaves of the Atherton family. They get paid shit. I was hoping to return them to the workers in their vineyards. Give them something to trade with."  
Daud nodded. "Sounds…virtuous."

Thomas nodded sheepishly. "And foolish."

"Not so foolish." Daud beckoned to him, and the three made their way down the alleyway. "You may just fit right in."

"How's that?"

Daud side-eyed him, and rubbed the back of his left hand absently. "You're interesting." 


	2. Vladko

He would endure.

Vladko always endured.

He remembered when the heady days of his youth had come to an end, spending time in the frozen straits of Tyvia, trying to eke out a living from the savage waters and the even more savage coast. Frost bears, vikas, sunfish, the whales; he'd seen them all, bled them all out on the deck of his trawler. Knee deep in guts and brine, he had laughed, even as his crew stared at him and made warding signs. He'd laughed, because life was cruel and the sea was hungry and the more time you spent happy the better, because who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Vladko knew what tomorrow had brought. Tomorrow had brought treachery. Mutiny. By the likes of men who had thought him mad, even as they plied waters filled with creatures whose hearts were colder than the furthest peaks of the homeland. Vladko had done what no other man had the spine to do. To teach them fear. Fear of the spear, and of the man wielding it.

If he found any of the bastards who had turned him in again, he would spit them on a harpoon and lower them into a shark's maw, even as they bled out and screamed. The thought brought a smile to his chapped lips.

He was startled out of his memories by the familiar sound of a whip cracking in his ear. Hot blood ran down his neck, but was swiftly cooled by the bitter wind. Soon it would congeal and form a gummy surface, like so many times before.

Vladko turned with difficulty from where he was seated, the splintered bench where his arm chains were shackled to his oar, and cast the culprit a ferocious glare. The man was weak, but loved to abuse the rowers when he was bored. A man like that on his ship would have been tossed overboard.

But, like so many other times, the man had moved on down the galleon, to torment some other poor scoundrel. Vladko gritted his teeth. He did not like being ignored. He would have the man stare at him, jeer, anything, so long as he knew that Vladko Orikos was on this fetid asshole of a ship.

He was going to kill that man, he decided, and told the man beside him.

The young, brown-skinned man gaped at him with broken teeth and jabbered something in his savage tongue. Sniffing in disgust, Vladko turned away and set his mind to rowing. The others would complain and wail of the harshness of their labours, but the waters around the capital of the Isles were like those of a millpond compared to the breakers off The Sorrow in Tyvia. He would endure.

Time passed-as much as it could for the denizens of the hold. Through the tiny porthole, he saw the faint orange of the setting sun, and a tiny slice of land on the far horizon, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the groaning, wheezing, croaking oarslaves around him. Their journey of weeks would soon be over, and he would trade this floating prison for one made of walls and steel. Till then, he would grip the salt-stained wood, ignore the fresh blisters oozing from his palms, and fucking row.

Eventually, however, the call came down from the upper deck, that they were to cease rowing. The engine would be used to guide them into port. Vladko hunched over his oar, unwilling to relinquish his grip. He imagined it was his old whaling club, sturdy and heavy. But instead of the grunts of wild things, he imagined the screams of the whip man as his limbs were broken.

Another smile, another wince in the stench-filled darkness of the lower deck. They had not been taken outside in days, and the clammy air was becoming less of a nuisance and more a struggle. He felt his other limbs atrophying, becoming dull with disuse. Soon he'd be pushed and shoved down city streets. Idly, he wondered how many would survive the journey. Three had died on this voyage alone. The slavers had not been happy about that at all.

He heard the tramp of boots, and let his head drop. He head learned much from over-talkative crew members who had come down to the lower deck. Perhaps they would furnish him with more information.

"It's a load of fucking shit, "one whispered hotly, without preamble. "Mooring fees are bad enough, but _tariffs?_ Over fucking slaves? This city'll bleed us dry of half our profit before we so much as get a chance to kiss the dirt!"

"Next time take a moment to listen, "his companion said calmly. "The captain's taking us out of the way. Dodging the usual scrape-and-shift. We'll be keeping all of our coin on this journey."

"He can do that? Last I heard this place had fucking patrol boats!"

"They're thinned on this side. Rudshore District ain't what it was."

"What? Why's that?"

"Come up here and I'll tell you…"

To Vladko's annoyance, the two men proceeded upstairs. He would learn nothing more sitting down here.

"Rudshore, oh by the Outsider's eyes…"

A querulous voice behind him. Not bothering to turn (he'd tried that once and it had hurt like a bitch), he spoke aloud. "What is this Rudshore district? Why is it of significance?"

He heard the man stutter, and ground his teeth. Did he think, perhaps, that Vladko was some half-wit who could not speak coherently? Ignoring the pain, he twisted his head around and snarled. "Speak, you idiot!"  
The man, a skinny wasted thing, spoke in a rush. "Th-the sailors told of a place where the sea wall had broken and the waters swept through. R-Rudshore is the place! It's nothing but ruin and evil things!"

"Be quiet, "Vladko said shortly, turning back. Already he was musing on this new information. A flooded district? Now that would prove interesting. How many would drown in the waters? He would not be among them.

He craned his neck, so that he might see out of the porthole, but night was fast approaching and the only light to see by was from the pale moon that shone over the city. The waves were lit up with an eerie glow, and he frowned. This was a fell night by any man's standards. He would almost have preferred to go via the docks, and chanced the city streets. _This city is ill with something. _

A clattering on the stairs, and a face swung into view. Vladko saw that it was his tormenter, and bared his teeth. "Hold tight there, you miserable pieces of shit!" the man squawked, rubbing his nose. "We're coming in to dock!" He vanished from view. Another missed opportunity.

_I will kill that man. I will crush his nose and pull the lips off his face so he cannot grin any more. I will break his thumb and then his finger and all the other fucking fingers he owns, and then all of his toes, and then I will find a skinning knife and cut his-_

Whumph! The galleon came to an abrupt stop as something below the water punched into the bottom of the hull and held them in place. The noise of the engine became a distressed whine and black smoke began to wisp into the hold. Amid the terrified shouts of the oarslaves, strained to hear what was going on upstairs.

"What the fuck-"

"Somebody get below!"

"What did we hit?"

"Must've been a reef or something!"

_A reef? This close to shore? _Madness. The men above were fools. So were the men below, down here with him. It was far more likely, Vladko reflected, that whatever had stalled their passage, had been a deliberate act of sabotage. Someone wanted this ship, and its cargo too.

He settled back, and kept his eyes trained on the porthole. They were not far from shore now, between fifty and one hundred strokes of the oar now. He could see the ruined buildings, their paint dry and flaking away, and curled his lip in disgust.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  
He whirled, to see a man standing in the aisle, just beside his oarlock. His partner shrieked in sudden fear, so Vladko elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Stupid savage, "he muttered. He took another look at the man who had appeared as if from nowhere. The other oarslaves whispered amongst themselves, and many made warding signs.

Clad in a thick, black tunic, complete with boots and pouches, he looked like any other man prepared to brave the elements. What made him different was the goggled leather mask he wore, strapped to his face. Vladko felt his skin crawl as the two shiny black circles came to rest upon him.

"Dunwall looks good on a night like this, "the man mused. The mask muffled his words, made him sound like an old lag whose lungs were about to expire. "Anyway. Stay quiet, and soon you'll be free of those chains." The man drew a wide-bladed sword from his hip, and held up a gloved finger. "Shh."

Vladko stared at the man calmly. "What is your name?"

"Thomas."

Vladko nodded. "Thomas. Know that if you strike down the man with red hair and the long nose, I will kill you."

Thomas cocked his head, then laughed lowly. "Fair enough. Not like me to get in the way of a healthy argument. I'll leave him." He raised his sword, and proceeded towards the stairs. "The rest we kill."

"We?" asked a hush voice.

The sound of an explosion, and the shocked screams of men. Then strange noises like the snapping of sailcloth, and the sounds of men being gutted. Thomas had brought friends, evidently.

"To arms, men!" the captain shouted. "To arms-" Then a yell, and the sound of a splash. Vladko pressed his eye to the porthole, and watched the captain of the ship gurgle as the sea pulled him under. He cackled with delight. _May the whales gnaw on your bones, fucker._

After about a minute, the sounds of fighting subsided, and boots sounded on the stair. The oarslaves began yelling in fear, knowing whatever doom visited upon those upstairs was coming for them. Vladko merely stared, waiting.

"Quiet!" a voice rang out, and Vladko frowned. That sounded like a woman. A woman had killed the crew? That seemed unlikely…

Two figures descended the steps, and walked slowly down the aisle, eyes scanning the oarslaves. In the dim light, their features were hard to make out, but one was definitely with a woman, with skin the colour of dusk. The other was a man, a scar the only noticeable aspect of his face.  
"This all of them, then?" the man asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Full complement." The woman tutted. "Malnourished and overworked. They won't last a week."

"Hmm." The man looked around. "Where's the one Thomas spoke of?"

Vladko spoke up at this point, not wishing to leave his fate in the hands of a masked stranger. "I am he. I am Vladko Orikos and I have business with the last crewmember."

The woman laughed softly, while the man grinned in the darkness. "Vladko Orikos, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What did that man do to you?"

"He whipped and tormented slaves. He withheld bread and drink, and was responsible for the deaths of three. He stole, he was lazy, he was argumentative. He did not wash. He argued with his captain. He was small-minded and sadistic. I want to kill him."

"Huh. Fair enough." The man bent, and, with a flourish, produced a key. He unlocked the savage's chains, then Vladko's. "You're free to go."

Vladko stood for the first time in days, and rolled his neck. The skin around his wrists were badly chafed, but damn it felt good to stand again. As the brown-skinned man gabbled and carped in his own tongue, no doubt gushing thanks, the man nodded to his subordinate. "See to the rest. Get them on deck."

As the dark-skinned woman set about freeing the other oarslaves (one made to kiss her and received a black eye for his trouble), Vladko glared at the man. "Who are you and why do you do this?"

"My name is Daud, "the man replied dryly. "I do this because slavery is a nasty business and we could use more recruits."

"We?" Behind them, an older man collapsed to the deck and lay still, panting. The woman simply stepped over him and continued her liberation. A steady stream of freed slaves were proceeding to the upper deck, many still dazed and confused.

"My followers and I. We're few in number." The man held out a hand, in a gesture of speculation. "We need strong men and women who are willing to fight."

Vladko sniffed at this….Daud's feeble attempt to win him over. "I do not think you are what I am looking for in a leader. Your second is a woman. What do you expect to gain from her?"

Vladko said no more, because a sword tip had come to rest neatly below his left eye. The woman in question was holding it. "I was going to ask you the same question, "she said coldly. "But right now…" The tip retreated, but then came to rest against his groin. "You stand to lose more than you gain."

"Billie, "Daud said.

She hissed, and sheathed her blade. "Just try me, you shit, "she warned Vladko, and proceeded towards the stairs. Most of the oarslaves were gone already.

Vladko rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. So the woman had fire. The man was cunning, and from the look of him, had seen his share of violence. "You are prepared to do whatever to survive, "he said to Daud. _Even risk a woman at his side._

"I am, "Daud said evenly.

"Then perhaps I will consider your offer." Vladko nodded to the stairs. "But for now…" He picked a stray pipe from the floor and hefted it. "I am going to beat that man to a pulp."

Vladko was still confused about a great many things. He did not know this city. He did not know why this man, Daud, was looking for followers. He did not know how a woman had came to be his trusted and first mate. But right now, that didn't matter.

Vladko was just happy to be getting his payback. 


	3. Pickford

Well, this was a bloody awful state of affairs.

As rough, gloved hands pushed him down a passageway, and he felt another drop of refuse strike his shoulder, Pickford seethed silently behind the rough rag they'd pulled over his eyes. Not a metaphorical one, sadly, but then again, he was usually the one pulling those over people's eyes, right?

Up until Bastion, anyway.

Not that he wasn't glad to be off that filthy old galleon, but this place wasn't much better. This placed _reeked. _Scraping the bilges of a whaler would have been paradise compared to this. From what little he'd seen, it was knee-deep murk, mouldering old buildings, hagfish swimming in the shadows beneath awnings.

And whale oil.

It trickled and seeped from broken canister and casks, the luminous white liquid providing useful, if eerie, illumination in the dark. It was bright enough so that Pickford could see it through the cloth. He was privately glad they skirted the bigger puddles of it. A nasty business, whaling, but even nastier was what the bloodthirsty bastards got out of it. Enormous, groaning carcasses hoisted high, dying slowly in abattoirs. Then vats of their precious, precious oil used in industry. It made his skin crawl. A mad part of him wondered what would happen if all the whales in the world were harvested and the oil ran out. Maybe they'd start using humans instead?

_Sure, and maybe the Void itself will swallow us whole when that day comes, _he retorted sarcastically. Sarcasm was good, even if it was directed at himself. It helped keep his mind off his current predicament.

Slavery hadn't been all bad. He just sat by an oar all day and rowed. Sometimes he even got fed. And they'd been about to reach their destination, when that chap in the red coat and his masked lackeys came out of bloody nowhere and laid waste to the crew. Cast off their shackles, brought them onto the deck. He'd appreciated their efforts as far as that went, even if they'd also let a barbaric Tyvian crush the whip-master's skull with a length of pipe. Standing out in the fresh air, stretching his aching limbs, it was the most alive he'd felt since that night in Fraeport, when-

"Move it!" That muffled voice again, that shove between the shoulder blades. Pickford gritted his teeth. They'd been walking for what felt like hours. Where the fuck were they going?

Knowing it was futile, he attempted a calm dialogue. "Listen, friend-"

"I'm not your friend. Shut your mouth and keep moving."

Pickford rolled his eyes behind the blindfold. "OK then…recent acquaintance. You mind telling me where we're going?"

"Somewhere safe. We're almost there."

"Right." That didn't fill him with confidence. Somewhere safe wouldn't mean swords and blindfolds.

_Better than what happened to the rest of the oarslaves, _a voice in his head whispered.

He winced, and it wasn't because he'd felt a rat run across his foot. He'd seen one or two massacres in his time, and even more blood, but the cold and calculating logic behind what the red-coated man had done was sticking in his mind. He'd freed all of the slaves, only to let them loose into the city.

_A better fate than pulling an oar, aye. But how many will survive the night? A scant handful will be street-smart, and find some berth until morning. Others will get lost, hurt themselves, fall down manholes, the Outsider knows what else. The gangs will find them with ease and gut them, or use them for sport. The city watch will kill most and capture a few, toss them in the dankest cell they can find. _It didn't matter how you sliced it, that man had sentenced them all to die.  
_  
People die all the time, _he sharply reminded himself. He'd known that for years. It was a fact of life. Pickford had spent most of his expecting death at any moment, and it had brought him a certain zest.

So why did being spared fill him with such dread?

Then all of a sudden, a rasping voice. "Stop here." He felt a whisper of a breeze, and realised they had made it out into the open air.

Without warning, the blindfold was roughly yanked off his eyes. Pickford gasped from the burn of the cloth against skin, and was about to voice his complaint, but the sight before his eyes made it die in his throat.

A massive, three-storied building loomed above him. Even in the dim light, Pickford could tell that the structure was crumbling. Gaping holes that had once been windows and doors gaped like empty eye-sockets, and smears of mouldy green told of past flooding and subsequent water damage. As if to defy the ruin around it, a statue of some noblewoman or another was situated at the front of the building. Despite the wear and tear on its marble surface, it almost gleamed. A sceptre was nestled in the crook of her arm, and she gazed out onto the ravaged district with a firm but benevolent gaze.

Not that the fair gaze of a statue would do much to help the place. Pickford dared to glance around him and saw naught but devastation, worse than what he'd seen in the slums of Astol. Houses that had folded like cards before the might of the floodwaters, fetid pools, brickwork and masonry scattered everywhere like some insane puzzle. Once-high mansions had become creaking, wobbling pillars beset by the night winds, some with the barest scaffolding keeping them in the air. He saw an entire living room, fireplace and chaise-longue still intact, exposed to the elements, surrounded by a warped mess of splintered floorboards. It looked nothing less than a rickety platform, rising above their heads and out of sight.

Pickford couldn't stay silent in the face of such destruction, so he decided to speak. "Well, "he tried. "Fuck."

Another shove. "Quiet!" Pickford turned to get a better look at his ever-present companion, only to see that he was wearing the masks he'd seen whalers don while working on the seas and in refineries. _He looks like a giant bug. _The two other men were shoved down onto their knees by another figure in a red tunic, but Pickford knew better than to be deceived. _That there's a woman. Slimmer than this one. Walks differently too. _He was a little proud of that knowledge.

A man walked out of the shadows to their right, and faced them all. This one wasn't masked, and after a few seconds, Pickford realised it was the man who'd freed them all. A twinge of unease passed through him. _Shit. _

"Listen up." The man walked towards them, features like they'd been carved from the stones of Whitecliff. "The name's Daud. This-" he gestured to the red-coated woman- "is my lieutenant, Billie Lurk. Thomas, you already know." The man in the mask coughed acknowledgement.

The other two oarslaves gaped, and one of them tried to break free from the ropes binding his wrists. Billie Lurk placed her sword against the back of his neck, and he stilled.

"The reason you're all here is simple." Daud clasped his hands. "We all have reasons to be angry. At the world, at the Empire, at this city. At people and places. You were slaves. No doubt whatever lives you once had, you've lost them now. You're nothing but gutter trash and spent potential. If I was any other man in this city, I wouldn't waste a brass coin on any of you."

Pickford found that to be insulting. True, to some extent, but insulting nonetheless.

"But this place here? This is a chance to start anew. I don't care where any of you have come from. I don't care what you were. If you have what it takes, you might be able to find a home here." The man's visage of stone had softened at this point, and for a moment he actually looked like the young man that he was, rather than a blood-eyed killer.

Fine words. But where were they leading?

As if sensing Pickford's unspoken question, Daud let his hands fall to his sides and his face became cold again. "But I won't waste time with wretches. You saw what happened to the other slaves. I turned them loose. You know why?" Daud swaggered forward. "Because I saw into their hearts. And I didn't like what I saw there."

A scoff, and all eyes fell upon the burly Tyvian, who folded his arms. "You speak of mysterious power and calling, but so far you have shown me little, _Master _Daud." The inflection in his voice was anything but respectful.

All eyes went to Daud, who raised his left hand, and made a fist.

It shone. A symbol of some kind burned white-hot through the fabric of his glove, bright enough that everyone present had to shield their eyes. Blue-green tendrils of light furled from his curled fingers. _What in the name of-_

Then, just as quickly, the light shut off, like water from a spigot. They were bathed in twilight again, and Daud withdrew his left hand inside his coat, as if nothing had happened. "That is the power I wield. And I'll tell you where it comes from.

"Should you survive this." He swung his gaze to Billie, and nodded. She brought the two men up on their feet. They still looked aghast from the display he'd seen. Pickford, for his part, wasn't feeling much more chipper. It was ludicrous, almost funny. He'd gone from the humdrum day-to-day of pulling an oar on a slave ship to being forced into some sort of contest by magic-wielding, mask-wearing sadists. Any admiration he'd had for the smoothness of their operation was quickly buried underneath a mounting wave of fear.

"You three will fight. No weapons. Whoever lives will have a choice. You can stay here, and find a place." Daud's face twitched. "Or you can choose to be turned loose, out into the city. Through the Flooded District. Two choices. Decide well." He nodded again, and Billie cut the ropes binding the two men. A _snick, _and he felt Thomas do the same to him. He rubbed his wrists with relief, but it was short-lived. The two men were rising, eyes turning flat. Pickford was all too familiar with that expression, unfortunately. Some men had a woman in every port. For him, it was more like some crazed lunatic with a vendetta.

He'd been in these sorts of fights before, and they weren't fun. When there were three men, they'd usually gang on up on the weakest of them, and finish each other off afterwards. And judging from the thickset nature of those men, he was going to be the odd one out. This wasn't going to work.

He cast a desperate glance at Daud, still stone-faced. "Oh come on, what about him?" He cast a thumb at the Tyvian, who was watching the entire thing with interest. "He's one of us too! Doesn't he get thrown in?"

Daud shook his head slightly, staring straight ahead.

Well, it wasn't like he could put it down to a vote. Pickford's hackles rose, and he held up two hands. "Now, come on lads, let's just-"

They charged.

"Oh, _shit._" He did what he had done so often in life, and ran like bonehounds were right behind him. The two men weren't far behind, but luckily for him he had the whole running thing down pat. He sped past a collapsed shanty, ducked under a low-hanging pipe, and saw an old iron ladder leading up the side of one building. As he cast his gaze higher, he saw it go up, and up, and…

Stifling the urge to vomit (heights were the bane of his existence), he sprinted towards the ladder. The grunting of the brutes behind him was getting louder, but it wasn't far now. A few more metres-

Suddenly the ground gave out, and he tumbled with a yelp. A splash, a moment of pure confusion, and he realised what had happened. Maybe he could blame it on the darkness around him, but he'd gone and fallen into a fucking ditch. _Fucking brilliant._ He slopped around in the foul-smelling water at the bottom, trying to get his bearings.

"There he is!" A scrabbling sound, and the two men started hurtling down the slope towards him. He cursed, and tried to climb up the slope. It wasn't far up, but the ground was slippery, and getting a grip was difficult. "Outsider's push!" he hissed, trying to anchor his boots into the sod.

Then he felt an iron grip close on his ankle, and a snarl. Panicking, he kicked wildly with his other foot, and felt it strike the man in the jaw with a sound impact. _Take that, you bastard!_ The adrenaline let him conquer the slope, and nearly sobbing with relief, he made it to the ladder and started climbing. Splashing sounds indicated the others weren't going to be put off by a bit of mud-tussling.

The wind began to moan in his ear as he climbed feverishly, eyes locked firmly in front of him. How high was he now? With every rung he got a little higher, and that thought was terrifying. _Can't think about it. Don't think about it. _The higher he climbed, the further away he got away from those two men. They'd kill him without hesitation. They'd beat him to death. They'd throw him off-

A groan wheezed out between his teeth, and he fought to keep his eyes open. Where the fuck was he even going? He could climb forever and those two would follow. He had to find a place to hide. Something, anything, to turn the odds in his favour. Hyperventilating, he started looking around, trying to ignore the creaking of the high rooftops. Somewhere to go-

As if some unseen guardian had answered him, he saw a small platform above and to the right of his head, barely a child's leap away from the ladder. If he could make that, he could easily hold out there for a while. Sure, he'd have to make sure he didn't _fucking spiral down to his death _but it was better, far far better than dangling like a drunken whore from this ladder. He screwed up his courage, and kept climbing.

Chancing a look below him, he saw the two men pursuing him with a single-minded determination that made him want to scream. _Why not push him off! One less to deal with, right? Do it, you hagfish-fucker! Fucking do it, bloody damn!_ No such luck. They had eyes only for him.

When he was right next to the platform, he breathed slowly, and let one hand loosen from the death grip he'd had on the rung, and reach feebly for the wall abutting the platform. Would it even take his weight? If it didn't, it would be a very short surprise. Once he felt confident enough, he tensed up, and prepared to jump. _Three…two…fuck…_

Pickford jumped.

For a horrifying moment he felt nothing but the wind, and the sensation of falling out of control. But then he heard the _clunk! _of boots on the metal, and the scraping of his nails on the hard surface. Blood bubbled out from under his fingers, but he just lay there for a few seconds, clasping the metal to him, head slumped and eyes closed.

Then he heard a snort, and his eyes snapped open. He got to his feet, one hand on the wall, and turned just in time to see one of the men spring off the ladder, almost silhouetted in the air, frozen in space-

Then he yelped as the man crashed into him, knocking the both down. Pickford was not a big man, nor a fighter. So he took the first punch to the jaw almost meekly, feeling his eyes roll back in his skull. One hand snaked and grasped his throat, and the other smacked him in the face like an iron bar. He felt blood spill down his cheek.

Then hands grasping around his neck, and an ugly face with an even uglier face, lit up by moonlight. He felt himself being dragged towards the edge.

_fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_

His arm spasmed, and before he knew what he was doing he'd lashed out with his right hand and jammed his fingers into the bastard's eyes. The man screamed as Pickford's long, uncut nails dug into the sockets, drawing blood and the Outsider knew what else. His hands came away from Pickford's neck and up to his eyes, and he backed against the wall, still wailing in pain.

Something seized Pickford then, something he'd not felt before. But as he rose up, he knew what he was going to do.

The man peered through bloodied eye-sockets just in time to see Pickford's fist whistling towards his head, impacting solidly on bone. Another cry of pain, but by then, he was being shoved. He stumbled, tripped, arms flailing wildly-

-and let out a scream of terror as he fell off the platform and towards the ground. Pickford closed his eyes as he heard the scream cut off abruptly, at the same time he heard a distant, sickening _splat._

He was frozen in that moment, one hand grasping the weathered brickwork, the other cupping his bruised cheek. His mind raced with shock. What had he done? What had he just done? He'd never killed anyone in his life. Not even on his worst day had he even _remotely _considered the prospect. Not in Morley, not in Tyvia, not in Gristol. His stomach churned, and his breath became short again.

_It was him or you, it was him or you, it was him or you…_

The clacking of boots on the ladder woke him from his stupor, and the cold fear returned in a rush. There was still one man left, and Pickford had survived by sheer luck. What were the odds he'd live now?

His gaze wandered, and he saw the remains of a fire escape jutting out from the building below. Taking a deep breath, and muttering another desperate expletive, he jumped. This time, the fall was much shorter and nowhere near as terrifying. He hit the grated metal with a thud, and he hobbled through the yawning door, into the building.

Greeted by a bare floor with massive holes torn in it and a small set of stairs leading downward, Pickford eyed the desolate space, looking for a club, a pipe, a chair, anything. Anything he could use to defend himself.

There was nothing. Of _course _there was nothing. He bolted for the stairs, and cursed himself. Quiet. He had to stay quiet.

The next room was dingy, with shelves and shelves of whale oil canisters. Most of them were empty, but a few still gave off that pale glow. Making his way down the stairs, he found a discarded iron bar and hefted it. It was better than nothing.

A clanking from above, and he swallowed. Backed up until he was against the wall. White-knuckle grip on the bar. His heartbeat was obscenely loud, and he willed it to soothe, to slow. Whale's teeth, but it stank in here.

A shadow on the stairs. Why wasn't he trying to hide? Why didn't he try to run? Why was he just standing there? He wasn't meant for standing. He wasn't mean for anything like this. His legs were itching, burning with the sheer, insane desire to take flight. But there he stood. Seconds ticking away. Felt more like hours.

Maybe he was braver than he-

The man rushed out of the darkness to his left, and he swung the bar with a panicked yell. A meaty hand ripped it out of his hands and another one thudded into his jaw, sending him sprawling. Groggily, he tried to stand.

Those same hands gripped the front of his shirt and swung him against the wall, sending waves of pain through his back. Then they were going for the sides of his neck, fingers grasping-

He lashed out with his knee, and struck a particularly tender spot. Grunting in pain, the man stumbled backwards, but stayed upright. Pickford wheezed in pain, but faced his opponent, fists up. _Whatever. I'm going to die. May as well die standing. _Maybe it was the adrenaline, but he felt light-headed, almost confident.

The other man licked his lips, and grinned malevolently. "I'm gonna rip your fucking eyes out," he said casually, taking a step forward.

"Maybe," Pickford shot back, slurring his words slightly. Had he really been hit that badly? His vision was starting to swim at the edges.

The man took another step, and then he slumped to one knee. "I-" His breathing became short, and his eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped to the floor, gagging.

_What the fuck-_

Pickford was vaguely aware of his own descent to the floor, but before he passed out, he let his arm fly out, and knock a cask of whale oil off the shelf. It smashed, and a thick, glugging noise filled the air.

He just fell, and let the darkness swallow him.

***************************************************************************

_Whack!_

Something slapped him across the face, and he awoke with a gasp. Dark figures stood about him, filling his vision. He tried to crawl backwards, but a heavy boot landed on his chest. "Don't move." A gloved hand came down, proffering a skin of water. "Drink."

Gratefully, he took a few swigs from the skin, then coughed violently. His lungs felt like they were on fire, along with his eyes and nostrils. _What-_

"Get him up."

Hands seized him, and dragged him upright. He felt a wall at his back, and slumped against it, head lolling. He still felt like shit, worse than that night in Bastillian.

But at least he wasn't dead.

"Leave us." A clattering of boots, and a door slamming shut. A face came into view, and he recognised it. The red-coated man. Daud. _The man who wields dark magic._

"You fool," he said softly, eyeing him appraisingly. "That building was sealed off before the flood. Too many fumes. Too dangerous."

Somehow he found words. "Then how am I still alive?"

"We pulled you out. Shortly after the other man died."

That made him start. "He's dead?"

"He is. He drowned in whale oil." Daud's eyes narrowed. "That was your doing?"

More than anything, Pickford wanted to say no. Wanted to say it had all been an accident, and that he'd just gotten lucky whereas the other man hadn't. But two things stopped him. The first was that Daud's penetrating gaze spoke of a man all too versed in getting the truth, one way or the other. The second…

_If you're going to ride with killers, best they think you're a killer too._

He nodded, face blank. "Yes. And the other man before him. We fought. He fell." After a slight pause, he croaked, "I want to stay."

Daud nodded, looking almost…pleased. "Good. I thought you weak at first." He held out a hand, which Pickford took hesitantly. "But it seems you're the last man standing. Welcome."

Not for a moment did Pickford think he could pull the wool over this man's eyes. But he'd lived, defied some bloody nasty odds and come out unscathed. That was luck in his book. He'd take his chances with these…people. _Better than pulling an oar._

So with a florid inclination of his head, he murmured, "Master Daud." 


End file.
